Crossing the line

If I had to narrow down what I've learned this semester to a few things, they would be 1) Group projects are basically the collegiate version of Survivor, 2) You should never ever shower without flip-flops on, and 3) You are encouraged, challenged even, to voice your opinion. If given the option between staying quiet and blabbing about some half-formed opinions, always take the blabbing route.

Or so says my English professor. A notoriously outspoken woman, she will never hold back her opinions, and she expects us to do the same. I'm not a confrontational person, but I can still respect someone who lets the world know how they view a situation--it takes less pressure off of the quiet sort to speak. I don't generally see a problem with people who are confident in what they have to say--in fact, I often respect them. The line gets blurry, however, when these people use others' personal lives to make a point.

During class, discussion arose about a film that showed the effects of post-war Europe. A certain student had a lot of intelligent opinions to share with the class about this; My teacher, in her agreement, stated that the student "is an Afghanistan war veteran--he's diffused bombs--so he knows what he's talking about."

The professor may have said this to give ethos to someone who was already handling the discussion quite well, but through this comment, she exposed this student in front of 20 people he didn't know very well, and he very clearly felt uncomfortable having this information out in the open. It was in this instant that I felt like a pawn of knowledge to our professor, rather than a human being with, you know, feelings. Some people may share what they eat for breakfast every day and how they're feeling a little more insecure that afternoon, but it is perfectly respectable to want to keep your private life (gasp!) private.

It is never okay to blab about someone's personal life without that person's consent--even if it's used to agree with them. I can only imagine the humiliation I would feel if the professor outed me to the entire class as a secret dragon slayer (oh no--my secret life has been revealed!). But seriously--there's a difference between not being afraid to speak out and being insensitive. Professors aren't immune to that sort of insensitivity--they are in no way entitled to take a student's life and turn it into a lesson. Yes, we are supposed to feel some discomfort in college. Yes, we are supposed to grow and learn from others' life experiences.

But we should never feel that it is the norm to be humiliated all for the sake of someone's opinion.

Namaste.

I had an emotion: The Twilight Epidemic

So I may have broken my promise to myself to quit feelings cold turkey. I had an emotion, a very strong emotion.

Was it about friends, family, or the fact that sleep seems a mere concept in my life?

Nope. I had an emotion about Twilight.

I'm not talking the new Breaking Dawn movie, either. That was pretty quality. It's always a good time when people's heads get chopped off  and babies turn into teenagers in the blink of an eye. That film, I admit, was a guilty pleasure, yet I fail to see any literary merit in a series that tries to make snow sound all mysterious by describing "swirling bits of white." However, my vampire class--a college class, mind you--has been assigned to watch Twilight. So while my homework is bearable, my hope for the classics of the future is slowly disintegrating.

First off, the running themes in our class are how vampires deal with the moral dilemma of having evil desires, and eroticism in vampire culture. Yes, there is quite a bit of sex in vampire literature, but it's not like, "oh, the reader is probably bored right about now, so I should probably throw some kinky stuff in." Vampires feel pleasure from drinking blood; it's in their nature. But Edward, oh Edward, has got to be the most human vampire on the face of the planet. He's all, "oh, I want to have sex with you, but, you know, morals and stuff." The whole movie is basically Edward being holier-than-thou because he hunts animals and then starts brooding about how he hasn't had human blood in over a century.

Obviously Stephanie Meyer tried to make it so that Bella's discovery about Edward's "true self" was the climax of Twilight, but it basically went something like:
"I look like a fifth grader's art project in the sun...I'M A KILLER!" Clearly Edward needs to take a course in logic, or something, because last I checked, glittery skin did not indicate a murderer of any sort. I mean, can we please have some burning going on in the sun? 'Cause sparkles on painted on abs aren't cause for a "woe is me" moment.

And yet, Bella still follows this melodramatic creature around, not because he's sexy (let's be real here--nothing can beat Jacob's abs), not because he's intelligent (I figure missing school any day it's sunny would give his GPA a real beating), but because he's all broody and mysterious. I'm not sure if broody is a word, but it perfectly describes Edward's persona throughout the entire film. He repeats this mantra of "I've got some shit to tell you, but I can't, because I'm Edward freaking Cullen." And obviously, what high school girl wants a stable relationship with a normal guy? Puh-lease. Forget that there's a freaking sexy werewolf who is kind and generous and has a sense of humor that wants to date Bella. Of course any girl would want someone that she has to play constant guessing games with and to overshadow her if he so much as breathes.

Not that vampires need to breathe. But that's beside the point.

But what really gets me is that after hundreds of years, Edward is still desperate to go to high school. He could probably get away with at least college, or moving far, far away to become a lumberjack or something. But no. It's cliques and droning teachers that remind Edward of "the good old days." You'd at least think that re-doing high school twelve million times over would teach Edward how to blend into the fashion world of teenagers. Maybe Edward enjoys being the sophisticated, wise sage of high school...or he just wants a bunch of hormonal teenage girls to be all over his sexy British accent...

..WHICH HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE!! Come on. Twilight would at least be bearable if the producers let Robert Pattinson keep his British accent. I'm sure they could work it into the story that his family was originally from England. But no. They have to dull what could easily be the sexiest part of the film with an American accent. The only time we can even hear a hint of awesomeness is when Edward says "worry." Then it's back to "yeah, I kinda wanted to kill you all along, whoops, have I said too much?"

But apparently this series hasn't butchered vampires enough to hide from it in shame in a college class.

What is this world coming to?

Namaste.

In defense of puns

Friends, I have a problem. An addiction, really (besides the whole pudding addiction, which I am quitting cold turkey).

I am a punny person.

Now, normally I would be outraged at this title, mostly because it sounds like people are saying I'm puny. But it's come to my attention that most of the world thinks puns are ridiculous and stupid. I've seen many an eye roll at puns, and apparently it's not witty and clever to tell someone who's taking a class on Amish culture that "hmm, something is a-mish."

The quality of puns are sadly underestimated, perhaps it's because they're considered a terribly dad-like thing to do. But it's hard to think on your feet and give zingy one liners like that! A joke with a story line gives you time to think, to plan in what intonation you will deliver the punch line. Granted, it also gives you more room to go, "no wait, wait, that's not right, hold on, the chicken ate the duck, and then he threw up...no, that's not right either..."

But, let me tell you, a pun doesn't give you room to say "I will have something witty to say in response to that, just give me a minute." If someone says they wear shower shows to avoid fungi, you are allowed no lag time before saying, "I'd much rather shower alone, no matter how fun that guy is." 'Cause if you think that joke is stupid, try it with a pause in between.

Makes you shed a tear, doesn't it?

Many jokes are exclusive--you've got your inside jokes that "you've just had to be there for" (what is it about inside jokes that always end up being told in public?), the generational jokes, then those obscure jokes that all the intellectuals can snicker at. Puns are purely inclusive. Even that twelve year old you aren't sure how to talk to at the family reunion can laugh without feeling the horrid generational gap. I think everyone in the family would feel more relaxed and able to break the ice when Billy, Bob, or Joe asks Auntie Anne (who absolutely despises pretzels) to pass the cheese, and she replies, "no, because it's nacho cheese!"

It's not a sign of weakness to laugh at puns--unless you're perfecting the ultimate eye roll. In which case, you'll gain that skill at age thirteen, promptly forget it, then laugh at puns when you're supposed to be filing taxes and whatnot.

Namaste. 

Feelin' Groovy

As my teenage-hood comes to a close (gotta start working on that time machine, damnit!), I've been considering feelings, and if they are unequivocally adolescent. If a seventeen year old is suffering through a breakup with a pint of ice cream and watching Sleepless in Seattle on repeat, it's a healthy way of dealing with one's first heartbreak. If a thirty year old does the same thing, it's considered breaking the rules of a diet, and wallowing.

Wallowing, past age twenty, is a first degree crime. How can you bemoan that guy who went off with that girl when there are starving children in Africa? The world had just as many problems when you were a child; the difference is, it was cute for you to respond to everything with "me! My feelings! Mine!" as a kid. As an adult, that kind of behavior is selfish, offensive, and bad for the sake of that ten page paper that must be handed in to your professor by Monday, no exceptions.

So are adults bound to a life of neutrality? Are the glory days of angst and bouts of "nobody understands!" over? At times, I think those feelings should be buried in a grave along with the hot pink pants my teenage self thought were a good idea. As a person who has an emotion when there is no pudding left at the convenience store, it was difficult to come to terms with this fact of life. You mean I can't go cry in my dorm room and cry, "what is this world coming to?"? I have to shrug, say "oh, that's fine," and move on with my life? Or I could, perhaps, buy more pudding. Logic is a Godsend.

So anticlimactic. So...grownup.

But even though I've been an "adult" (I shudder at the word) for over a year, feelings haven't poof, gone away. If anything, the first year of being an adult brings the most feelings because you find yourself facing job interviews, professors that aren't interested in hearing that sob story about your dog, car payments, friends you've suddenly outgrown, and that weird flippy thing your hair decided to do. So what do you do? Tackle all these problems with a day planner and a fanny pack (because everyone knows a fanny pack is the sure sign of wise old-fart-dom)? Of course not. You have a little cry in your closet and try the sob story about your grandmother on your professor.

But as I've seen that feelings aren't magically disappearing from my life, I've also realized they're not  necessarily bad. Sure, there are plenty of "I'm mad, I'm sad, I'm annoyed," moments that make you want to run screaming around the block. But without emotions, we wouldn't have gratitude for those nights that you have crazy random happenstances with friends. Without feelings, we'd be without pride for our hard work, or our loved one's successes. I respect my friends' choices to go about life in a way that works for them, but if everyone were like that, we'd all be a bunch of robots that pump out productivity and synonyms for indifference.

You know that moment when you feel like joy is just emanating from your body, and you could run a hundred miles? Or when you're laughing so hard you can't breathe? Or when someone makes you smile when you've been crying? I wouldn't trade that for anything. Not even the stamp of adulthood.

Namaste.

The many faces of Scrabble

After a delightful Thanksgiving in which we all felt too full too, y'know, do that whole moving thing, my family and I decided to play an intense game of Scrabble. You'd think this was all fine and pleasant until you discovered that said Scrabble game was played with an English professor. Throughout this game, I discovered that one's true personality can come through in that "life or death" moment.

I present to you the many faces of Scrabble:

1) The sneak attacker.
This player claims she doesn't know what she's doing, then proceeds to screw everyone else in the game over. They preface each turn by saying "oh, I was taking too long to think of a good word", lays down two magic letters, then gets five hundred million points. They claim that someone else could think of a far better word, only to present zebraxylophone to all the other players, who are now drowning their sorrows in coffee and excess amounts of pumpkin pie. The game ends with the sneak attacker saying, "I would've gotten five hundred billion points if I weren't so tired."

2) The "double or nothing."
This player is so intent on getting thirty thousand points per turn, that if he can't create two words with a couple letters, he refuses to play anything at all. However, "double or nothing," is, as we guessed, the English professor, so the trouble of finding two words usually takes as much effort as the rest of us would to brush our teeth. And just as much gleeful humming takes place (yes, I've been known to hum while brushing my teeth. Don't judge). No matter that these words are painfully simple--they still rack up all the points in the world! No one in the universe, the galaxy, will never win another game of Scrabble ever again! 

3) The "aw, screw it."
This player, who sees Scrabble as woefully similar to a puzzle, or a strategist mastermind's heaven, will spend ages staring at her set of words, and when she discovers that "Zaaaaarmof" is not, in fact a word (though we all know it very accurately describes the emotion of having too much work to do), she freezes in that moment of panic and puts down "ear" or something equally ridiculous that will give her three points. Minus three for unoriginality, so she's back to where she started.

4) The "I know something you don't know."
This person has that sneaky little grin whenever you lay down a word, and is all, "oh hey, instead of having negative ten thousand points, you could make the golden word."
I always thought the golden word was "dountoothersasotherwoulddountoyou," and I certainly don't have that on my letter selection. But when I raise my eyebrows and say, "oh really?" like I'm in some bad mystery movie, this Scrabble personality will say, "yes, but I'm not going to tell you what it is." Then they watch you flail with words such as "la," "is," and "as," and then proceed to take the spot you had your eye on the entire turn and gain enough points he could win Scrabble ten times over. Plus two.

5) The "I don't know what this means, but surely it's a word."
This person takes two consonants and sticks a random vowel in between, hoping that "pof," or "ges," is a word. When someone challenges this person and asks what it means, she says, "look it up," like she's known it all along. And if it's not in the dictionary, then surely it means something in another language. For all we know, "pof," in French, means a turtle who lost his shell in battle.

Namaste.

Like my status?

One of the things about Shoshoni that really struck me was the guru Babajii's humility. Everyone at the ashram admired him and reminded him of his greatness, and even though he takes each person's opinions to heart, his ego doesn't grow into the size of a pumpkin because of it. I mean, people bow down to him and send him prayers every day for Krishna's sake! If that was me, I'd be sitting on that couch going, "bow, minions! Mwahahahaha!"Babajii attributed much of his knowledge to his teachers, and simply put a spin on the ideas that had been passed down to him. Yet you don't bow down to an idea--you bow to a person. Humans get uncomfortable when we can't put a face or name to an idea. Just yesterday, I told my dad about a joke on facebook I'd found: That the passing of gay marriage laws and marijuana legalization made perfect biblical sense because "every man who lays together must be stoned." To which my dad replied: "you're funny." I hadn't come up with joke, because I voiced it, the idea, and consequently the praise, was directed at me. I knew this, yet I still felt like a comical genius who should be standing alongside Eddie Izzard. Or something. So it surprised me when I found that the guru at Shoshoni had gotten 20+ years of direct worship and was seemingly unfazed by it. Babajii was one of the most down to earth, approachable gurus I have ever met. Not that I've met many a guru, but that's beside the point.

Sri Shambhavananda, or "Babajii"

In 4th grade, our class did a role play activity in which we were merchants on the Silk Road. Our "Calcutta Dogs" group won because the two other members were skilled artists and because we had some luck with gold, yet as a "winner," I felt more than entitled to our reward: At the sound of our authoritative "grunt," the rest of the class would have to bow down to us. As an objectifiable expert, I believed the grunting reward to be mine, all mine! Turns out, the grunting technique doesn't necessarily work on the bully who knocks you off the tire swing.

That got me thinking: Can anyone truly detach their achievements from themselves? The yogic guru may play it down, but we don't know his brain. He could be walking around, all enlightened and stuff, going, "yeah, I'm awesome!" The world will never know. He has a lot of sound advice to offer anyone hobbling down the yogic path, so he gets deserved attention, but how is it possible not to let the external assurance seep into your soul?

To me, status is something that becomes a part of me. And I don't mean "out with the girls, texttttt" (although facebook statuses have also become a part of me--more on that later). I mean that whenever I achieve something, that isn't just an action that my body did. It's a part of my memories, my emotion. When I (miracle of all miracles) got an A on my science blogs, I leaped around for the next two days feeling like I could do a happy dance, like a smart cool kid. Because I had success, I was successful. Because my teacher liked my blogs, I was liked. It's difficult to separate the person from the action.

But when can status take us too far? What if, for the rest of eternity, I thought I was fabulous at science, then walked into a chemistry class? What if the Shoshoni guru walked into a Catholic church? If people are treated a certain way because of certain audience, their entire lives turn over when they leave that safety net. I once met a woman who was so set in her authority because she had lived in the same community for twenty years, she was convinced she could criticize someone who had lived there for one day, and was so disoriented, she couldn't even tell someone her name. Now, obviously I'm not the best sweeper in the entire universe, but to go "I've lived here for twenty years, so I can tell you your sweeping technique is weird and inappropriate," is just flawed logic, that's coated in false confidence about status. Not to mention that her status was due to the fact that one of her family members had created the community she was living in. (I just realized I made it sound like I was dancing on tables or something whilst sweeping--I was doing nothing of the sort.)

Then again, status shouldn't be completely ignored. We're a culture that likes to see how things are progressing, to have something to show for our existence. To go from undergraduate, to masters, to PhD is rewarding because it shows you've worked hard. And just as it's exhausting to put a lot of effort into your achievements, it's even more tiresome to try to place the credit elsewhere, while others are trying to convince you that you're amazing, a genius, a Van Gogh of the generation, minus the ear bit. In the movie The Nun's Story, Sister Luke tries to disregard her genius because she thinks it selfish to revel in her accomplishments. She had a constant internal struggle with her ego and her desire to be pure because her surroundings told her achievements were never to be acknowledged. Now, I don't know much about the convent lifestyle, but in my view, if Sister Luke had just acknowledged her success and moved on with a bit more confidence, she could've gotten a lot more done, and more importantly, been happier.

So how can you be happy with your achievements without seeming like a cocky, pompous ass? For me, a lot of my pride is found in writing, and much of my deepest insecurities are exposed throughout my stories and poems. So if someone likes or dislikes my fiction or poetry, it's as if they're also deciding whether they like or dislike me. In that case, my ego can inflate or deflate in an instant. But with more factual writing, such as an analytical essay, I don't feel any personal connection to the work. For English class, I wrote an essay about the ideas portrayed in Lolita; my teacher was pleased with the essay, and obviously I was pleased with the grade, but it never occurred to me to link that grade to my worth. I saw it as taking ideas that Vladimir Nabokov had, and putting them into my own words. I attributed the ideas to the author, rather than myself. So perhaps Babajii gives his advice as though he's writing an analytical paper--he's adding in direct quotes from his teachers while offering his own spin on them.

It's possible to have un-biased status, but we shouldn't always ignore the ego. Sometimes it's worth it to do a little happy dance and revel in your awesomeness.

Namaste.

I suck at tetris, and other reasons I will be taking math next semester

Okay, so maybe I'm taking The Mathematics of Money next semester, in desperate hopes that my savings account won't look nearly as dismal come April, but it occurred to me yesterday that there are plenty of day to day activities that make me realize that I probably should have paid more attention in math class, and done more than this:

Hmm, this is actually one that I know. For some reason, finding the value of X brings the same sort of thrill to me as if I had a lifetime supply of coffee or glitter. Yet as a friend and I were playing tetris last night (somehow I avoided the stereotypical study hall activity by blogging and writing novels. NBD), I couldn't even get all the blocks to fit on the bottom row. Do you know how sad that is? Level one, and I was already dead by the first set. If the fate of the world were left in the hands of all tetris players, I'd destroy everything before we could even think about level two.

That awkward moment when all your hopes and dreams of world domination are brought to a screeching halt because you can't even arrange some blocks on a computer screen.

I ended up just making pretty designs with the blocks. One time I could've sworn I made a giant L, as though the flashing neon sign of "losing" wasn't clear enough.

The same goes with puzzles. Don't even let me think about those complex 2,000 million piece puzzles--I'm talking your basic 500 piece puzzle. All throughout elementary school, I avoided the issue by pretending I was too cool with my American Girl Dolls, or I was busy taking care of my Tamagotchi. But once you pass elementary school and the kids you're babysitting are better at puzzles than you, you know that spatial intelligence is not just something that is so last year. It haunts you forever, like a ghost, or the fact that Jersey Shore happened.

Yet the biggest slap in the face for being horrid at geometry is shown in my driving skills. Now, to be fair, I'm not dismal at the actual act of driving. Sure, I've had a freakout or two (or five) on the highway, but I mean, I can work those neighborhood roads like no other. What trips me up is those two lines that tell you "park here." And you have to turn at the exact right moment, because, as it turns out, a gold minivan doesn't want a lovely purple streak on the side, no matter how punk it looks. Hey, I could start a trend: highlights for cars. But since that probably won't be a thing for at least another year, I gotta face the facts that you must estimate the distance, angle, and length of the parking space, and that room for error only exists if you a thousand bucks to spare. And so, with the hopes of not being that person who takes the bus until they're 80 years old, I shall face my nemesis that is math class.

Also, that whole graduating thing is a good motivator for taking math.

Namaste.

Passively change?

I've heard a lot about "change" this past year--graduating high school is a change, as is starting college. Those are the kinds of changes that are easy to label, easy to see. Yet there are also differences in people that are harder to notice, that you can only subtly see. People are always changing, always forming into ways that will better themselves. But are these re-formations subconscious, or do humans actively decide to be different?

When I went to Shoshoni, I observed how everyone around me so easily let go of their emotions and attachments, that I felt like I would be horridly un-acceptable as a human being if I got excited over a new shade of lip gloss, or the millionth pair of jeans I just had to have (see previous post). As my surroundings meditated like a boss, I felt lost when I'd close my eyes and start thinking about coffee. As far as I could tell, my hip joints got more flexible, my wardrobe was significantly different, but my mind wasn't. So when I returned home, I pretended that I'd gained spirituality and that I'd "seen the light" (not like that), when really, all I saw was a 50% off sale at Kohl's that made me want to do a little happy dance. I told myself I'd be a failure if I had nothing to show for my month at Shoshoni, yet a month later, I was back to my same old emotion-holding, shopping fanatic self. Which made me believe I was doomed to never experience personal growth. Because if technology fasting and five A.M. meditations wouldn't change me, nothing would. 

So starting college as the only person in the world who feels like she's still fifteen years old (because obviously, every other nineteen year old is wise and has figured their entire life out), I got into an argument with my friend. It was about something stupid really--something like cheese, or politics. I can't remember--but we got plenty worked up about it, tangling ourselves into one giant spider web of conflict. I responded in a way I thought I always would: Trying to get out of a fight. But my other friend commented that "high school Kira never would've done that." Huh. I wasn't actively trying to respond differently, it just sorta happened.

It seems that when people are determined to change themselves, they act different for like, two seconds, then they revert back to old habits. It's like dieting: If you're consciously aware you're trying to make a difference, your brain goes something like "mwahahaha, I will make all the bad habits in the world come and bite you in the ass!" And then you cry over a few episodes of America's Next Top Model, which just makes you feel worse about yourself. But if you're just going about your daily routine, do do dee do, you may notice that something's different. And no, it's not the horrid brown paint they decided to slap onto Wal-Mart (why, I ask you?). It's you. Also, it's the fact that your fairy godmother is standing right behind you. Turn around. Damn, too slow. Ya' just missed her.

Namaste.

Jean-ius?

There's a phenomenon that many girls fall victim to, myself included. And I just don't get it. I don't. I mean, there's a lot of things about my fellow female species that I don't understand, but one thing that truly baffles me is why girls insist on having a million pairs of jeans. They all serve the same purpose of covering your legs and making your ass look good. They're made of the same material, and for the most part, they all look the same. So why is it that whenever we go to the mall and see that cute new pair of jeans that's basically the twin to whatever is hanging in the back of our closet, we just have to shell out twenty bucks for it?

I mean, let me paint a little picture for ya': There's light wash jeans, there's dark wash jeans. There's skinny, bootcut, and flare jeans. At most, that could make six different pairs of jeans. Yet there are at least twelve pairs in my closet. And you know what happens, I wear four of those pairs, do the laundry, and wear the same four pairs again. Even though they're all practically identical, I've chosen my favorites, and half of them don't even get used.

So even though I'm aware that I'm mindlessly throwing money away towards what I already have, I'm victim to the sneaky little tricks stores use to make their denim seem amazing and other-worldly:

1) Belts. Normally, I'm not a fan of belts. If I'm wearing a long shirt, I look like I have some weird tumor going on in my hips. Plus, they're just a pain in the ass (literally--almost) to have to un-do every time you have to pee. But if you see this adorable pair of jeans hanging up with a flashy belt, it just screams "buy me, buy me!" Seriously though--I'm surprised no one has tried to market talking belts. One time I was shopping for a Christmas gift for my ex (who wasn't my ex at the time, 'cause that's just freaking weird to buy gifts for exes...but more on that in a later post), and I found a super badass awesome belt for him. Not only is it embarrassing to buy anything of the clothing sort for a guy, but when I saw a pair of jeans with an identical belt, I almost bought it so that we could be matching.

Oh my god. Matching belts? Never has a couple had a cheesier idea. Fortunately, I got distracted by something shiny. But seriously, when you think it's cute to match anything with your boyfriend--even if it's something small like your dress and his tie--it's not.

2) "Boyfriend cut."
Call me blind to the world, but boyfriend cut jeans seem suspiciously similar to boot cut jeans. I don't know if this style is trying to sell the idea of having a boyfriend, or trying to match said boyfriend, but either way, it makes me want to cry into a bowl of cookie dough and not be able to fit into any of my jeans.

3) Glitter. I'm seriously addicted to all things sparkly. In fourth grade, my teacher coined me the "glitter princess." I would've been the glitter queen, if my teacher hadn't won the title already. But every time I see a pair of sparky jeans, I'm convinced they're different from the rest of the world of denim. The trouble with these pants, is that once you wash them, they're sad and faded ole' regular jeans. The glittery excitement happens through one or two cycles of wearing them, then you forget why you bought them in the first place.

Also, through all this "sameness," I fail to find a pair of jeans that prevents whale-tailing. Perhaps I need more belts.

The irony astounds me.

Namaste.

The product of academia

Hi, I'm Kira, and I have something to confess:

I am the child of two academics.

Henry David Thoreau is quoted at the dinner table, discussions about the word "relatable" are common in our household. Encyclopedias are our Bibles. We die a little on the inside every time someone says "these dishes need done." Because in this instance, friends, the answer to "to be or not to be?" is to be. It's always to be. On a wild Friday night, my parents will turn on the History Channel and if they're really feeling crazy, consume an extra dessert.

Shit happens when pumpkin pie is involved. Don't let its innocent shiny surface let you think otherwise.

So, as the child of two academics, I grew up to be bookish, to think that literary theory was something every family discussed at dinner, and to not even question if I was going to college. And in the midst of students who go to college simply to get that degree and score some memorable partying stories, I feel like some rare breed who must be kept in a cage to examine and mock. I've been called "lame," "no fun," and even "sheltered" because I choose to stray from the partying lifestyle. And thus, I question, if I had non-academic parents, would I be partying like it was 1999 right about now? Would I even have a love for books and writing? Would I even be in college?

I can tell you this much: I certainly wouldn't even be considering grad school. Which is, unfortunately, the new college.

Not to say that academics didn't have their fun in college; it's not like professors are one big cluster of lame. They still make choices on an individual level, I'm just saying that to stay in on Saturday night and write an essay that's due in a month is stereotypically "professor-ish." 

I guess this is just a product of the on-going nature/nurture debate. Clearly parents have a huge effect on their kids, but it's not like I'm a clone of my parents. I mean, none of them have an obsession with wearing fuzzy animal hats, nor did they have any interest in yoga. But in the general scheme of things, they've conditioned me to think, to question, to turn to books when I'm feeling lost about something. A child wouldn't think to find the answers in books if they'd never been introduced to them in the place where they spend the most time, or where they're most influenced.

Personally, I love having professors as parents, especially when the due date of that English paper rolls around. Though it can be intimidating to have three different sets of in-depth notes for my revisions, having those references helps me grow as a writer, as well as a person. I may have waved off intellectual conversations as "dorky" when I was a kid, but I'm now seeing how valuable they were to my success as a college student.

A fantastic professor, even more fantastic father

A goofy dad who's serious about teaching

Snugglefest ^_^

Couldn't imagine a better mom

I wasn't born with the brains of a professor, and I'm still far from being a genius. The difference is, I've always been told the reasons for going to college, what to get out of it. And it isn't just to party hardy, get a degree and run to the next high paying job. I've been taught to think critically, to dig deeper than the surface to get to the meaning of a challenging text/problem. Maybe it's enough for some to see a challenging text in "i like u, but i don't wanna date u," but to me, it's rewarding to work through Dickens and Shakespeare and to better understand the world from both a critical and personal perspective.

Also, it doesn't hurt to have connections within the university.

Namaste.

It started off as an innocent YA novel...

...Then turned into a vampire book. What?
If you're new to my blog, let me just start by giving you a crucial piece of information: Turtles are awesome.

Also, I'm weird.

And because I'm weird, I decided that on top of my course load...of erm...13 credits, I needed to assign myself extra work in the form of NanoWriMo. And that, friends, is not just a page or so of extra work. That's 50,000 freaking extra words of extra work.

So if I look at you with wild, crazy eyes and go "fjeioawjioawjfe0woiJFOIASJOWJF!" Now you know why.

It's turned into more of an endeavor than I thought it would. It's not that writing 1,667 words per day is impossible to do, but 1,667 good words per day?

Fogettaboutit.

So I started off this whole NanoWriMo thing, writing what I know: And what I know is about girls and their lives. I started off with strong character developments and progressive dialogue. Then something happened: one of my classes started to influence my outside work more than I thought it would. As my main character got a cut and started bleeding (a minor conflict, if you will), my thought process went something like: "oh blood...vampires like blood...ONE OF MY CHARACTERS IS A VAMPIRE!"

All of a sudden, my Young Adult fiction has turned into a vampire novel. And I'm just kinda sitting here, watching these characters take over my keyboard as I throw my hopeful outline out the window. An outline for NanoWriMo? Bah. Rookie mistake.

So now, I'm less the puppet master of this...uh...novel (if you're kind enough to call it that), and more of a puppet as my characters tell me what's going on. It's kind of a crazy ride, and my inner editor is screaming so loud, I can barely hear the pre-thanksgiving partiers out my window.

And that is how the cookie, or blood rather, crumbles.

Namaste.

P.S. Can blood crumble??

Things I want to do before I die

So I had this thought, right? And we all know what happens when I start thinking. Maria and I were discussing the presidential elections, and how Hillary Clinton might run in the 2016 election. I thought, "oh, so a woman will break the mold...I want to become the president of the United States before I die!"

...Just kidding.

I just gave you a little heart attack there, didn't I?

But seriously, I started thinking, "oh, I'll be 23 during the next election. Then I'll be 27. Then I'll be 80 someday and then I'll be dead." It's a lovely thought, isn't it? To think of your own mortality is just a pleasant walk in the mall. But I figured before I croak, I should, y'know, have some goals and whatnot.

So, without further ado KIRA'S AMAZING (AND SLIGHTLY RANDOM) LIST OF THINGS SHE WANTS TO DO BEFORE SHE DIES!

1) Write and publish a book.
2) Write a screenplay.
3) Go to France.
4) Meet Johnny Depp. Meet Johnny Depp. Meet Johnny Depp.
5) Laugh so hard, milk comes out of my nose (lemonade: Check. Not milk yet though).
6) Go back to Shoshoni.
7) Go backpacking (chyeah, I'm awesome!)
8) Participate in a flashmob
9) Take a class that is not required for my major, that I wouldn't think to take.
10) Become a certified yoga instructor.
11) Run a marathon
12) Make a friend at an unexpected place
13) Learn how to cook
14) Write a novel in a month (sigh....)
15) Eat something strange
16) Make a vlog that doesn't make me want to tear my hair out
17) Learn Guitar

...And that's all I can think of for now. Bucket lists are fun, even if they can be outrageous at times. And they make us at least feel more productive.

Namaste. 

Growing pains, or why I will in fact be reading Jane Eyre

So there was this time in my life when I didn't like books. Or rather, anything other than a specific genre of books. If the cover didn't have two people making lovestruck eyes at each other and the plot summary was anything other than a "girl and her life," I simply wasn't interested. I must've read Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants five times just to keep my parents off my back about my reading habits.

"Hold up right there," you say, "an English major who didn't like to read?? Why, that's preposterous!"

Yes, dear reader, preposterous indeed. I missed out on many references; I was blissfully unaware that almost half of what adults said at any given time was an allusion to Shakespeare, Dickens, or the Bronte sisters. My love of English came from my desire to write, rather than read.

Yeah, I know, reading makes you a better writer, trust me, I got that lecture twenty times before. But only now am I conceding that my parents didn't use that lecture just to talk at me. Branching out of your comfort zone through reading makes you more able to branch out and take risks as a writer. Even just playing around with other authors' voices has made me more comfortable in my own voice. I've found that Lemony Snicket's voice is freaking difficult to re-create, but that I'm naturally a Jodi Picoult-esque writer. It's comforting to put a label on something so vast as writing voice.

So. A challenge for myself: To read classic literature and not feel the need to writhe in pain as I do so. I remember having this challenge for myself earlier in high school, but I didn't get much out of my first pick, Jane Eyre, because I failed to understand both the language and the feminist connotations Charlotte Bronte was trying to get across. But then, miracle of miracles, we were assigned the same book for my English class, and I got something from it. I was turning the pages going, "yeah, Charlotte, I'm with ya'. Children should be heard. Getting locked up in red rooms kinda sucks. I understand." So even though that assigned book got taken off the syllabus, I shall continue to read Jane Eyre for the sake of my growth as a writer, and, more importantly, my growth as a person.

A good beach book, perhaps

But not worth undermining the classics for

Namaste.

Citizen Kane, AKA I re-discover my love for films

Back in 8th grade, I had a dream...That my best friend was trying to steal all the chocolate in my house. It was terrifying. But actually, I did have a dream of one day becoming a television screenwriter. My 14 year old self was convinced it was going to happen. I innocently wrote Monk and Psych scripts in my basement on some crappy '90's IBM computer, naively believing that any person who ever moved to LA in the history of the world didn't want the exact same thing. The thing about dreams is that you can convince yourself you're on a delightfully productive path to your ultimate goal, then realize that the thousands of people after that same goal are shoving you off the path. Because, unfortunately, oftentimes in the television world, the people who coast on that path aren't exceptional writers. They're good, and there are exceptions--like Tina Fey--but the people who can ride the path are excellent shmoozers.

So as I entered high school, I kind of did away with the dream. Sure, I still wrote scripts, but I wasn't fond of getting the awful rejection letters saying my "unsolicited material" wasn't good enough for network television. I continued writing for myself--a quiet hobby, if you will, but I didn't believe I'd ever have a chance at putting my writing out into the world, shoving the much more eloquent people out from the path.

But then 10th grade happened. And I took a film class which made me fall in love with movies. I couldn't believe I'd spent 16 years not knowing about Citizen Kane, Casablanca, or every Alfred Hitchcock film that was ever made. And I knew--that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to make people who already fell in love with movies maintain their faith in them, and anyone who'd only seen crappy movies to see the beauty in the film world. Then the idea got shattered by more statistics about people who move to NYC and LA with the same "dream."

Then tonight, for English class we had to watch Citizen Kane. And it's like my love of movies stopped getting put on hold and I re-discovered just what a huge impact a good film can make. Whether I was analyzing the different shots Orson Welles used, or the ethical connotations the movie gave about wealth and love, I was constantly immersed in the art, and even through knowing the sorry fact that it's EXTREMELY DIFFICULT to break into the film/television industry, it's my dream. I can't even describe the thrill I get when typing up a nice bout of dialogue, but my reaction goes something like: "kdjfaisdjfosiejfsdlajfls LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL." And I can't imagine doing anything else.

Sometimes, dreams aren't so silly. Unless they're about friends stealing chocolate.

Namaste.

I'm on the strugglebus

Friends, I started NanoWriMo going strong. For a full week I not only stayed with my 1,667 words per day, but I got ahead of schedule. I felt awesome--like a true writer who dedicated her life to characterization, witty dialogue and fantastic scenery. Nothing could stop me! That is, until I had a lazy day, and instead of keeping up with my word count, I watched four hours of youtube videos. To make matters worse, they were youtube videos I'd already seen at least five times, and could probably recite word for word.

And sure, it was all fine and good at the time; I laughed along with Alex Day, sang along (badly) with Kristina Horner about NanoWriMo (oh, the irony), and recited "cake or death?" (see video below)  alongside Eddie Izzard. Saturday, a day in which I had nothing to do, could've been purely dedicated to writing. Instead, I used it to eat, sleep, and be merry. Just kidding. I was too tired to be merry. So then Sunday happens, right? My last chance to catch up on my weekend word count. Nope, Sunday as it turns out, is no less lazy than the other two days. A work shift and floor meeting later, and I wake up Monday morning to realize I'm 4,000 words behind. 

What can happen in 4,000 words? A dramatic breakup. A tree falling on on someone's head (not gonna happen in my story, but, y'know...conflict). A falling out with a mother (more likely). SOMETHING THAT I DID NOT WRITE, BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY DOING NOTHING!

Bah...What is this nonsense? How can a joyful evening of this...

...Turn into this?

Urgh.

So not only is the quantity of my writing vastly inferior to the star NanoWriMo's work, but the quality seems to be diminishing as well. I mean, even when I get into the groove of dialogue, and I'm feeling good about my character's witty comments, I then look back and see this:

Character one: "Erm, hello." (Apparently they're British?)
Character two: "I think I'm in love with you! Marry me!"
Character one: "I, uh, have to go."
Character two: "No, you're mine forever! Mine, I tell you! Now go make me a sandwich."

Okay, so perhaps that's a bit of an exageration. But what once was I story I could let ferment in my mind is now just a mush of words on a page. Kristina Horner, AKA Italktosnakes once said that you will question yourself as a writer during NanoWriMo. "Hah!" I'd say in response to that, "I'll just throw a bunch of dialogue in there, stay on track, and I will never question myself ever!"

You will. If you do NanoWriMo, even if you're freaking Shakespeare, you will question yourself as a writer. You will. Don't give me that look....That one, right there. Wait. How'd you do that weird eyebrow thing?

November is hard. I'm on the strugglebus. I think I'm gonna give myself all of December to edit this...thing that is supposedly a novel. Oh, and sleep. Because, as it turns out, the proper response to "hello, how are you?" is not the sleep deprived response of "ohmygosh I like monkeys!" Even though I do really like monkeys.

Write on, friends, even if it's not right on.

Namaste.

Things Change

So if you remember my Curator post, you'll see that I was slightly poking fun at people who paid $40,000 to socialize. I often try to stress the importance of getting an education, and how we're in college not just to expand our social horizons, but to expand our minds as well. The trouble is, I've been kind of a hypocrite by doing well enough in my classes, but not entirely jumping out of my comfort zone socially. Sure, I've joined clubs, but I give myself excuses not to go to them ("I'm too tired, I have too much work to do"). My heart hasn't really been in it this first semester...and then I'm surprised when I realize that most of my college friends were my high school friends as well.

Don't get me wrong, I love my high school friends. And I plan on continuing to see them. They are some of the kindest, funniest, most genuine people I know. And I'm sure every incoming college freshman loves their high school friends too. Even people who graduated college in the dark ages still have fond stories of their high school group. That kind of love doesn't go away--but growth also goes away if you choose to only stick to how things were back in those prison-like walls of high school. Those who go away to a new college, they don't have a set group of people to fall back on. By sheer fact of not knowing anyone, they have to talk to everyone. In that sense, I'm kind of envious of that discomfort; human nature is such that we automatically steer towards the people and environments that we are comfortable with.

But sometimes, there's that forehead-slapping moment where you're hanging with some people you couldn't imagine life without in high school, and you realize you have nothing in common with them--that the only way to uphold a conversation is to start some drama, or talk about other people, rather than ideas. Because you know what (hypothetical situation, but just getting my point across), talking about how so-and-so slept with that guy isn't going to make me see the world in any other way. It's not going to expand anyone's mind. It's only going to make people feel like shit when their private lives are held up for all the world to see. Some people have sex in college. Some people don't. It's not a big deal, and furthermore, it's their own personal business. Making something miniscule this huge drama is so very high school, and when you strip down that kind of gossip, you realize there are friends with whom you don't have much to talk about.

Of course, there are the select few who I could talk about writing, or yoga (or coffee--you knew I had to stick that in somewhere, didn't you?) with for hours. Those people I truly couldn't imagine life without.

I know I already promised this in my Eleanor Roosevelt was Right post, but it's time to kick it into gear--right in time for Thanksgiving and Christmas break. Yay timing. But come next semester, I'm joining the Atheist/Agnostic society, and I'll consistently go to the two other clubs I'm involved in. It's scary for an introvert to even think about initiating conversation, but it's also disheartening to leave others with the impression that I'm cold and un-interested. And so begins the whole journey of growth--because things change, and usually for the better.

Charlieissocoollike would agree (remember our British vlogging friend?):

Namaste.

Fear of nothing?

Yesterday I was taking a grand excursion of the Youtube world (read: I was procrastinating my homework and landed on random videos), when I had realized that Charlieissocoollike, one of my favorite British vloggers, hadn't posted a video in a while. Having always felt better after seeing of his "fun science" videos, or just hearing a random story from his day, I'd wondered if he perhaps fell of the face of the Earth. He himself hadn't, but I was rather disheartened when I found out that his confidence had disappeared:

It's a little troubling to find that someone who is so liked by so many can still feel terribly insecure, like his work means nothing to the world, and that even a sexy British accent can't make him feel better. Yet I think this "everything I do is total shit; why can't I just be like so-and-so who can do amazing such-and-such without even trying?" phenomenon is universal to humans, even if it's ridiculous to make such generalizations. I doubt there is anyone in this world who is awful at everything, and the people who seem to just grab talent out of thin air actually put in a ton of effort. But instead of taking things on an individual level, we see anyone in the history of the world who was ever good at baseball, or tennis, or hitting people over the head with a baseball bat, and compile them into one untouchable person who we must become, or we'll all be failures. Not only is this incredibly stressful to think that everything we do must be above an "acceptable" skill level, but it's impossible.

I say this not being immune to the expectation to be good at everything. I suck at sports. If you throw a ball at me, I will run in the exact opposite direction. In middle school, I got hit in the head with a volleyball multiple times. I can't run a mile. I can dance like nobody's watching (except everybody's secretly watching and laughing at me), but I have absolutely no interest in running or chasing after balls. Yet there was one unfortunate day when some guy I was trying to impress who happened to be good at skiing, asked if I could join him. Now normally during the winter, I curl up into a little ball with a mug of hot chocolate and every season of How I met Your Mother until my body thaws out again. This fateful winter, I decided to show I was an excellent skiier because otherwise, I was bound to be a complete failure at life. It didn't matter that the guy couldn't write well (nor was he interested in it) or dance, it was only a disgrace that I was bad at his interests. So after one shaky lesson on the bunny hill, I decided to show my skills at the top of the mountain, fell off the ski path and into the forest. And the guy who I now had zero hope of ever impressing had to pull the helpless victim of pride and silly expectations back onto the path.*

*Editors note: No underlying feminist connotations were meant by that story. He literally did have to pull me back onto the ski path. 

I got better at skiing, but I also realized I still wasn't interested enough to excel at it. And guess what, I'm still living, I'm still good at stuff. Just not that stuff.

Charlie's video also got me thinking about the hobbies that I do put time and effort into, yet still sometimes feel less than skilled at. More often than not, I feel the "shitty first draft" syndrome while writing. The dialogue feels constrained, the descriptions clichéd. And sometimes, okay, oftentimes, I give up. I have a pile of stories I started with gusto and intentions of taking far, then got angry with. It's a vicious cycle. But something NanoWriMo has taught me is that even when you feel like no great (or even mediocre) ideas will pop into your head, you just keep writing. Sometimes what I write in my Nano story makes absolutely no sense. Sometimes my characters contradict what they've just done. But then there's that incredible moment when, in the midst of all the crappy character development and God-awful dialogue, when you see a genius idea that you can expand on. Then the writing gets not-so-genius again. Then you get a stroke of inspiration. Like anything in life, success lies on a spectrum. As does respect for yourself.

We all have moments of insecurity (even you, oh person who's crossing your arms and claiming you're "too proud to be insecure." Yes, you, with the face, and the hair, and the clothes). But we also all have moments of genius and times that you want to (and should!) revel in your awesomeness. Charlieissocoollike does a fantastic job of articulating a universal feeling, but it is not a permanent one.

No friends, we are not doomed to permanent suck-ery. Which means you shant feel the need for permanent insecurity.

Namaste.

P.S. No bones were injured in the making of the skiing story, only pride. :P 

Day 6 of NanoWrimo and feeling good

Many of us experience great strife during November. Whether we choose to not shave (nuh-uh, I'd rather not feel like I'm becoming furry, thank you) or to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, it can be a lot to handle. When I first decided to do NanoWriMo, I kind of half-heartedly intended to do so. As in, when I had free time, sure I'd write a bit, but I wouldn't lose sleep over it. I wouldn't chain myself to 50,000 words and call myself a failure if I fell behind.

Turns out, my brain doesn't work that way. Once I give myself a goal, especially when those around me have the same goal, I have to finish it. Unless it's math homework. Then I have no problem half-assing assignments. But my dorm is rather tense this month, with chilling spurts of silence, with periodic demands of "how many words do you have?" Granted, I am a highly, HIGHLY competitive person, so I may be imagining more drama than there actually is.

My NanoWriMo story isn't the greatest piece of literature in the world, nor is it even my best writing. But it's mine, and it's keeping me writing a hundred times more than I otherwise would. I have lost sleep over NanoWriMo, and I may not be getting as far ahead in my other assignments, but once I hit my stride, I find that feeling the pressure of November 30th looming over my head can actually be fun.

I mean, my fellow Nano writers are a fantastic support system, as are a myraid of youtubers who have experienced many a NanoWriMo, and offer great gems of advice. We're all on the same boat here, experiencing the same hand (and brain) cramps, but we can all re-assure each other that no one's expecting a New York Times Bestseller the first time around. The point of NanoWriMo is to just, well, write.

Oh, and I have 10,000 words. Being on the path to something ridiculous has never felt so good.

Namaste.

A Day to Remember

No, not the band, and although the chorus of "Remember, remember the 5th of November" that has been invading my news feed is amusing, the day to remember I'm talking about is November 6th, 2012--Election day.

Politics has always been widely discussed in my household. Sometimes I think my brother knows more about the candidates' plans and proposals than Romney and Obama do. And while I'm not a political maniac, I know what I stand for, and I can finally voice those opinions and a productive way that truly matters. Because yeah, I know what you're thinking, electoral college and all, but every vote matters. And if you want to make a difference in the country, it starts with putting some initiative in choosing who's going to represent said country. I may not agree with everything Barack Obama has to say, but his representation runs far closer to how I think would work best for America. And so, a democrat voting I go. But it's not like I'm telling Republicans to stay home tomorrow. Everyone who is liable to vote should! It is your civic duty, as well as your privilege.

It's sad to see that viewpoint on voting (at least, among some) has gone from a glorious privilege to a chore, an obligation. Yes, it is something you have to do (or will get mercilessly mocked and reprimanded by others if you don't), but it is also something you get to do. People have fought for their voices to be heard since the beginning of freaking forever. Just because we live in a world that is more equal now, doesn't mean we should take these rights for granted and wave off voting just because neither candidate is "ideal" or "perfect." If you get excited about voting for homecoming king and queen, or the next American Idol, that excitement should be multiplied when you're talking about the next leader of your country.

On a more personal note, today was a day in which I watched my ego both expand and deflate. It's a funny thing, the ego--you think it's in a permanent state when it switches to a certain way, then we're always surprised when it jumps right back. In high school, I was at a pretty steady "average" standpoint academically, yet it astounds me how much such labels can jump back and forth in college. Just yesterday, I was practically floating off the ground after receiving my science blog grade (A is a magical, magical letter, my friends). I thought, "I'll never have to work again! One fantastic grade in science, and I'm set for life!" That same day, I took a test in that very class, and got a D. Down with the ego. Elation and devestation, it turns out, don't outweigh each other. You can feel one of those one moment, and be just as effected by the opposite in the blink of an eye. Or, in this case, the click of a button. It's awfully fun to have those feel good moments where you're on top of the world, but college isn't necessarily always about "winning." It's about learning, and growing as a person, and sometimes, that requires putting your ego in check. Sometimes, unfortunately, it requires some D's.

Or at least that's what I'll tell my science teacher when he gives me a "look" next class.

Namaste.

Harry Frickin' Potter: Where Friendship beats Sex and other defenses of our culture

So my English class got into a long discussion about whether or not Harry Potter is worth literary merit, or if it's just a childish fad in our generation. While there were the select few who had never chosen to crack open a page of Harry Potter, the large majority of us feels a deep-seeded loyalty to J.K. Rowling's series, not just because we grew up with it, but because Harry Potter deserves just as much literary merit as Great Expectations or Ivanoe (okay, I've never read Ivanhoe, but that's beside the point). And so, without further ado, allow me to defend my culture and all the jazz. And if you're not satisfied with my angle on this grand series, take a look at Maria's post for the mythological standpoint.

First off, J.K. Rowling manages to create a widely successful series without even mentioning spooning, awkward euphamisms, and other sexual endeavors. So much of today's generation has been about sex, sex, sex, because you know what, sex sells. Or so says everyone who wants to take the easy (haha, get it?) way out. But friends, you know what other glorious cliché there is alongside "sex sells"? Oh wait, that's right, you can't buy happiness. Which means you certainly can't sell it. The books with the cheap morals that regurgitate themes (Cough, cough, Twilight, cough) sell a product, a formula that spits out: Lonesome, relateable person+attractive suave person=let's screw. J.K. Rowling goes deeper than that. She's not selling a formula, she's observing and commenting on human nature.  The friendship between Harry, Ron, and Hermione takes time to build up. It's not like they run into each other and go "hey, I think you're kinda cool, let's be best friends." If you don't recall, there was severe animosity between Ron and Hermione before they exchanged pleasantries; their friendship grew through their love of Harry, and, y'know, fear of Snape. This models real life so much more than "ooh, a vampire, he's cute, I FREAKING LOVE HIM." Unless you're in sixth grade. In which case, go get your hormones out and get back to me at Sane O'Clock.

Not to say there isn't a good chunk of romance in Harry Potter, but Rowling so easily transcends the awkward missteps and politics of crush-dum, that it doesn't make people bang their foreheads against the table and cry, "Why can't my life be this easy, wah wah, I'm such a failure at relationships, Imnotasupermodelstaratsexorsmoothtalkingdonjuan!" You can easily create a fairy princess story where one person falls for the other the instant their eyes meet. Observing the ticks of small talk and crushes takes both skill and lots of practice to successfully translate that to a page. Harry and Cho Chang dance around their interest in one another, which makes the story suspenseful, and, wait for it.......REAL-FREAKING-ISTIC. There is no such thing as perfectly woo-ing someone. Ever. Never.

Aww, so he eventually did "woo" her...but just sayin', it took time

 

While a large portion of Harry Potter deals with battling demons, snakes, and Voldemort (oh my!), a prevalent theme throughout the series is courage. It goes past than the cool scenes in which the hero blows up bad guys and gets a badge of honor at the end. Harry Potter, in book one, battled Voldemort for the sorcerer's stone--And for absolutely no personal gain. The mirror of Erised recognized Harry's selfless sacrifice, and ended up giving him the stone. Harry Potter didn't desire mortality--he simply wanted justice. He put his own life on the line in order for Hogwarts to be safe. This book teaches us that you shouldn't battle through your nemesis and life searching for personal merit--or you will forever be disappointed. And that is something we could all stand to learn. Ron may be the cowardly character, but Rowling presents his courage when he and Harry play Wizard's chess and he must sacrifice himself for the sake of the game--only then can Harry move on to the next step to defeat Voldemort. In a time of need, Ron set his own fears aside (alright, so he didn't end up dying, but he didn't know that at the time, now did he?). Neville Longbottom, the most cowardly character of all, stands up to his friends when he sees they are making a wrong and dangerous decision (then he gets "patrificus totalus"ed by Hermione, but hey, he tried). Not only that, but in book seven, he steps up as one of the main heroes and destroys Nagini, one of Voldemort's horcruxes. For the well being of a whole, rather than just the individual self, these characters displayed remarkable courage. And J.K. Rowling  does it in a way that is well written, creative, and enjoyable for every age.

Oh, and she made Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans happen. And that's always fun.

Namaste.